


Unending Narratives

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Adorable, Angst, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, F/M, First Kiss, General fluff, Mention of torture, Mild Blood, One Shot Collection, Original Character Death(s), Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7116730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaby steps into him and he lets his head fall to her shoulder, golden hair matted to his forehead, lips pressed along the column of her throat. “I thought,” He begins softly, his voice barely rising above the sound of rain spattering around them, “I thought I would never get to do that.” </p><p> </p><p>A collection of one-shots/answered prompts from a "things you said..." meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Things you said as we danced in our socks

**51) things you said as we danced in our socks**

Their safe house has cold floors made of beautiful marbled wood, but Gaby has learned her lesson with cold floors. Now she shuffles along with socks pulled up to her ankles, feet barely lifting off of the floor as she moves from the kitchen to the sitting room. Illya is already in there, his elbows on his knees and his golden head bent over the chessboard. There’s a glass in her hand but it’s practically empty and she’s feeling just bold enough to shuffle between him and the table, making him lean up from his hunched over position. He shoots her an irritated glance, blue eyes surrounded with dark circles. He’s tired, she’s tired – they’ve been on this mission for two weeks too long and there’s still no sign of the end in sight. Solo is on recon work for the night, leaving the little mechanic and the KGB agent to their own devices.

“I just needed to get to the radio,” She reaches down with her empty hand and pats his cheek, watching as his glare melts away at the touch of her hand. They haven’t had much time together since Rome. He still looks at her like she hung the stars in the sky and she still feels the electricity racing through her nerves when his fingers brush her own.

“No,” He says it like it’s a final statement, but Gaby doesn’t listen. Instead she’s pulling away from him and slipping across the floor in her thick socks. A soft little sigh leaves her lips as she taps the edge of the old radio, fingers punching along the channels. The first one is nothing but static, but the second one is in a language she can only describe as static-garble. Gaby turns the dial again and soft music filters into the safe house. It’s a slow beat, but she sways anyways knocking the rest of her drink back and swallowing hard. The rich liquid burns across the back of her tongue and she hums lazily to the song she doesn’t even know.

Gaby shuffles along, dancing to the music while Illya forgets his game. His gaze is on her, he watches her old ballerina skills flood to the surface as she moves. She is drunk of course, but still steps with a certain precision he is sure that no one but Gaby can master. He watches her close her eyes and then spin. Gaby’s arms flail out for a moment as her socks slip and then a laugh leaves her lips as she straightens herself out. Her laugh makes his own lips twitch upwards. He’s amused, watching her entertain herself before she sets down her glass and moves towards him, hands outstretched.

Illya quickly shakes his head, “No.”

“Yes,” She answers for him, hands outstretched and fingers wiggling. Slowly she breaks down the barrier between them and somehow he ends up standing with her smaller hands in his. He lets his thumbs smooth over her knuckles, memorizing the feel of them just as she draws him out to the floor. His own socks slip against the wood. There’s not a lot of furniture in the small safe house, leaving them plenty of room for a little make-shift dance floor. Gaby is still humming off-key, she swings his arms around with her own, making him shake his head. This small woman is exasperating but, there’s something magnetic that draws him in. He can’t tell if it’s the way her hands fit against his or the way her feet slip over his own. The wood floor is slick and Gaby’s drunk little slide has her almost knocking him down. His own feet tangle, slipping on the hardwood. They wobble and she laughs as her feet lose balance. She feel like she’s dancing on a patch of ice, unable to hold her balance, too drunk to care, to happy to stop.

Illya pulls on her arms and straightens her back out, “This is terrible dance lesson.” His accent is thick and she laughs again, unable to help herself as she takes a slight step back and twirls under his arm. He holds firm to his spot on the floor while she spins, her sock covered feet losing balance. Gaby almost slips and Illya moves to save her, a reaction he has both on and off the field. The need to save her – to protect her is almost pure instinct and when he moves, his sock covered feet slip. They hang on to one another, nearly pulling one another’s joints out of socket before Gaby lets go, laughing as she slips to the floor. Her hair’s a mess and head is tilted back as she laughs, she’s flushed in the face and he let’s it slip then and there.

“I love you.”


	2. Things you said after you kissed me.

****

#14 - Things you said after you kissed me. 

It happens in Kiev, so close to the Russian border. The rain is no longer a drizzle, but now coming down in ice cold sheets. Gaby’s lips are turning blue, her bangs are plastered against her forehead and she’s shaking when he takes her hands, folds them into his own. He presses his strength over her fingers between his palms, he warms them. The rain is getting thicker, making him feel like he’s directly under a waterfall. Gaby’s dress is ruined, the fabric sticks to her bones and she shivers again, stepping into him. Illya’s own clothes aren’t that much better. The dark gear he is wearing is weighing him down, all his tactical gadgets are soaking wet, ruined – pressing heavily over his shoulders. He let’s Gaby step in though, their mission is over. There is a cloud of smoke in the night sky, the warehouse behind them is a blazing fire and Solo is getting them a boat, but now it’s quite. The excitement is gone from the air, exhaustion creeps in and Gaby shakes in his hold.

Illya finally lets go of her hands, smooths his palms over her wet cheeks. Her makeup is running now, thick mascara starting to slip down her cheeks. He brushes all that aside with his calloused fingertips and then makes her look up at him. He gives her the smallest shake, fingers pressing over her olive toned flesh, “Gaby,” His accent is thick, washed away in the pounding rain. His heart is beating so loud it’s a wonder she can’t hear it. Or if she does hear it, she doesn’t comment on it. She only looks up at him, the fire in the distance is a warm orange glow and it casts over her delicate features, illuminating her in the night.

“Illya,” Her voice is shaking like the rest of her. She is cold and there’s a small cloud close to her lips when she exhales. She’s so small it’s a wonder she’s still standing upright. Illya’s fingers comb up from her cheeks and slide along the wet snarls of her hair. She is still warm to the touch, but he knows this won’t last long. Her hands come up and her fingers wrap around his wrists. Her palm presses over the strap of his father’s watch and he can feel the starting of a fire across his nerves. He gives a silent prayer that Napoleon won’t interrupt them, he watches her exhale again and the way her lips are tinged blue. She shivers and shakes, fingers gripping harder. Her little nails make crescent moon-shapes on his skin and he soaks up this moment before thunder crashes over head. The storm is moving closer, the rain will douse the fire behind them soon enough and he is losing precious minutes of the orange glow. He doesn’t waste them. He leans in and doesn’t give the universe the chance to interrupt them again. His mouth finds hers and it’s warm, the rain pelts over them as he pulls her up. She tightens her grip on him, a soft gasp escapes her and he catches it. The kiss is everything he’s molded in his dreams and more, it’s more than any fantasy his mind could have dreamt up. Gaby is small and warm against him, kissing him back with a ferocity much greater than his own. He revels in the feel of her, the taste of her, the faint smell of expensive perfume and motor oil mixed. Then just as it’s begun, the thunder crashes again and she pulls away to look up at the last bit of fleeting lightning. It spiderwebs across the dark clouds, illuminates everything and then their world is dark again.

Gaby steps into him and he lets his head fall to her shoulder, golden hair matted to his forehead, lips pressed along the column of her throat. “I thought,” He begins softly, his voice barely rising above the sound of rain spattering around them, “I thought I would never get to do that.”


	3. Things you said after a nightmare

**Prompt: Things you said after a nightmare.**

 

The snow is thick and unyielding. It comes down in heavy sheets, blanketing the world around them in a white wilderness. Nothing is visible through the thin paned windows of the safe house. The old house is drafty and the windows are damp around the edges. Despite wearing a thick pair of pajamas, Gaby is cold. Her belly is warm with alcohol but she’s long since finished off the bottle, her weary steps are uncoordinated and she shivers as she shuffles her way towards the small fire Illya has built. 

She puts her hands out in front of herself, fingers splayed out. The old fireplace is well worn and putting off just barely enough heat to keep hypothermia at bay. Illya moves a chess piece behind her, she can hear the little pawn scrape across the board and heaves a sigh. Her sigh doesn’t go unnoticed and there’s movement behind her. There’s a soft sound of his sock-covered feet shuffling across the cold wood floors and then a hand creeps around the edge of her hip. He plants his palm there and she can feel the heat of him through her pajama top. Illya is a furnace in the cold safe house. She resists the urge to lean back into him, to soak away all his warmth with her back on his chest. Instead she feels him lean in and the press of his forehead against her shoulder. He mutters something in his mother tongue and Gaby’s lips turn up into a half-smirk. 

“It’s too cold to sleep.” She murmurs softly but Illya isn’t having any of it. With a firm grip on her waist he lifts her up. A breathy laugh leaves her lips as he pulls her past the small sitting area, towards the small mattress. They fall together, the mattress squeaks under their weight and Gaby burrows under the thick duvet. Illya joins her and it doesn’t take her long to curl into him. Her cheek presses to his chest and her cold fingers sneak up under the edge of his pajama shirt. When her fingertips brush his skin, his stomach jumps, and she grins against the blanket as he mutters something in Russian again. She misses on what he says as she smooths her palms over his waist and plants them on the small of his back. After a moment he heaves a soft sigh and buries his face in her neck. Eventually her cold feet tuck themselves between his legs and Gaby falls asleep, because her insomnia is no match for Illya. 

Sometime during the night she shifts, her hands skim away from him and she rolls, her back to his chest. His hand grips the blanket and then he moves his hand down. His fingers dig into her pajama top and he shakes. He shakes so violently that it wakes up the small mechanic. Illya’s grip on her is bruising. She pushes at his hand and he swats back, he lets out a sigh so soft it sounds like a whimper. Gaby is awake now, head up and pulling herself out of his impossibly tight hold. The fire has long since died down, embers leaving nothing but a soft glow in the room but it’s enough that Gaby can see the sweat sliding down Illya’s forehead, matting his hair down. She can see his teeth gritting against the pillow and when she goes to shake him, he lashes out. 

His arm sweeps upwards and catches her under the chin. The force is enough to knock her back to the edge of the mattress, “Illya!” She shouts his name. He is pale even in the dark light, his eyes are squeezed shut and it’s like he doesn’t even hear her at first. She sucks in a sharp breath, reaching over the bed. Her hand shakes his shoulder, moving to his hands as he goes to lash out again. She grips onto his forearms and crawls over the blanket. She holds onto him, pressing her weight on to his chest. His name falls from her lips again, it’s more desperate this time, her accent heavy. It must do the trick because he’s awake before she can shout his name again. 

“Gaby!” He looks shocked to see her. Those blue eyes of his are wide and searching, brows knitting together out of confusion. His breathing is still rough, labored under her weight and she carefully lets go of his forearm and reaches up. Her fingertips brush away the hair that has matted down against his forehead. His skin is clammy and she watches him as he tries to push her hand away, “Gaby stop.” 

She doesn’t. She shakes her head down at him, keeps her knees on either side, rooted to the spot as her fingers stroke down the edge of his soft cheek, “You just had a nightmare.” Gaby says it so freely, her voice barely above a whisper.

He inhales under her, closing his eyes and shaking his head softly as if trying to shake the whole notion away. After a minute, she leans over and her forehead presses to his. Her nose brushes his own and he opens his eyes. Gaby doesn’t look away or back up. She’s a force he has to reckon with, one he finds he’s unable to look away from. Her brown eyes keep him pinned. 

“What,” She starts carefully, softly -- speaking so quietly she barely knows if he can hear her, “What were you dreaming about?” 

The silence ticks on, a log in the fire finally falls snuffing out the embers and Illya leans up. His lips brush hers as he speaks, but he refrains from kissing her, “Losing you.”


	4. Things you said when you thought I was asleep.

**12 - Things you said when you thought I was asleep.**

 

Their mission is far from over, but Gaby is so tired that she slumps down in the back seat of the car. Her feet are pulled up and her back partially rests against the door, her face pressed into the seat. Exhaustion thrums across her muscles, dragging her down. A yawn pulls at her lips and Illya watches fondly. Solo is driving and watching them carefully out of the corner of his eyes. He looks up every now and then in the rear view mirror and then resists the urge to smile as the small mechanic slumps down even further. She is not built for the kind of endurance the two of them have built up over the years. She stayed awake the first twenty-four hours, ran with them, swam across the chilling waters earlier and even managed to scale out of a second story window. Now though, she is tired.

She didn’t even fight them when Solo offered to drive. That was the sign then and there to Illya that Gaby was too tired to go on. Solo drives them through the winding streets of Prague. He doubles back, makes sure they weren’t followed. Paranoia runs thick and freely among spies. He takes winding curves and back roads, circling once and twice just to be certain. Satisfied that no one is following them, he heads back for the rented house on the edge of the city. He parks around the side of the house and goes to wake Gaby before Illya’s hand grasps on to the edge of his sleeve. The Russian man shakes his head softly and Solo smiles now, but keeps it to himself as he leaves the car, quietly closing the door behind him. Gaby lets out the softest sigh Illya has ever heard and after a minute or two in the darkness of the car he gets out and manages to get her out as well, curling her into his chest. He carries her with ease. He has one hand on her back and another hooked under her legs with her head pressing into dark turtleneck. She murmurs something in her sleep and shifts a bit in his arms. Her lips press to his sweater and he tries to calm his heart that’s trying to escape the cage of his ribs as he moves into the house with her. She is a slight little thing, barely weighing much at all in comparison to what he could lift.

Solo is busy in the kitchen, but Illya passes him and carries Gaby up the small narrow steps that lead to the second story. He climbs the stairs as carefully as possible, urging the old wood to not groan so loud under his weight as he moves to Gaby’s bedroom. The room is small and bare with a small twin-size bed, which is perfect for just her. Solo has the other bedroom and Illya has made himself comfortable on the couch down on the lower level. He refused Gaby’s offer of sharing a bed, considering the couch to be more comfortable than attempting to share the small sliver of a mattress that he was much too tall for. He carefully clicks the light on and closes the door with the toe of his boot before he carries her across the room for the bed. With a careful hand he presses her into his chest and tugs on the edge of the blanket to drag it down before laying her down. Gaby stretches her legs out almost instantly as he pulls the blanket back up and over her form. She mutters into the pillow and turns on the bed, curling towards him. The silence of the room rings around him and Illya finds himself sinking down onto his knees next to the bed. He’s still tall, even on his knees. He presses an elbow on the mattress, listening to the springs squeak as he presses down on them. His fingers carefully touch her bangs. It’s a light touch, just enough to push them aside. He sweeps her bangs back and lets his calloused fingers brush her forehead. She is warm under his touch, warm and sleepy, curled up like a happy house cat.

“You are very small.” Illya nods softly, as if he’s agreeing with himself, “Small, little tough girl.” He can sense her fatigue, watches her shoulders move as she exhales heavily into her pillow. Her fingers curl over the edges of the sheet and it feels like his heart is nothing more than a piece of wood, splintering under the weight of what he feels for Gaby. His fingers slip across her forehead and he traces the careful curve of her cheek before stopping at the corner of her lips. She moves softly in her sleep and the movement is enough for him to pull his hand away, not wanting to disturb her sleep. After a moment he exhales, his own exhaustion seeping in. Illya rakes a hand through his blond hair, making it even more of a mess before dragging his palm over his face, “I should not love you like I do,” He mutters to his palm, itching at the stubble that has long since passed a five o’clock shadow.

His shoulders sag, “But you make things very difficult.” He scratches at his jaw for a moment and he waits for her to wake up, say anything to his declaration to an empty room, to chastise him for saying it in such a way. He waits for her to spring up and demand an explanation, but she doesn’t and he goes on. His accent is thick in the room, his own fatigue shining through as he thinks of all the things he’ll do for Gaby Teller, including leaving such a life behind to start something new, something that keeps them both far from the Iron Curtain and it’s Iron Ruling. Shoulders sagging he exhales, “But I like difficult it seems and you, you are most difficult woman.”

He says it all with affection. Slight smile pulling at his lips as he stands finally. He stretches out his legs and walks away from the small bed, “Most dangerous, difficult woman in all of world. What have you done to me little Chop Shop Girl?”

 

A soft snore rips through the room and Illya shakes his head before his hand finds the light and he turns it off, closing the door behind him. The sheets rustle for a moment and Gaby rolls onto her back, eyes wide open and focusing on a moonlight covered ceiling. Her heartbeat is wild and her thoughts are on high speeds as she replays his words, slowly and carefully taking them all back in before she presses herself down into her pillow, smile wide.


	5. Things you were afraid to say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning -- this chapter mentions blood, possible torture, and/or abuse. -- Any of these things could be possibly triggering, so please skip over.

**58 - Things you were afraid to say**

He finds her by the tracker in her ring, thankful that the little device still pings off his transmitter. Her hair is soaked with sweat, her skin is pale and her eyes have dark rings under them. She doesn’t get up when he finds her, her eyes stay closed and she mutters something softly into his chest when he picks her up. Her weak appearance strikes a chord in him. Even when she relaxes into his hold, he’s angry. Solo is taking care of their exit. His fingers card through her hair and she exhales into his turtleneck, fingers curling against him. Her grip is weak, her pulse is faint and he’s still angry. Anger floods his system and red bleeds into his vision. It only subsides when she clings to him, bruised fingers shaking as she holds to him the faint sound of his name falls from her breath and Illya’s world goes still.

“Chop shop,” He breaths out carefully, leaning over her. His nose brushes her forehead and then he kisses the spot, carefully holding her to him a little tighter almost threatening to crush her. He should have never let her go on the perimeter check alone. It doesn’t matter how long she’s been in the game with him – and he knows she can take care of herself. He knows she’s quick with a handgun, but it doesn’t matter how quick she is when the enemy sneaks up on her. She’s overall small and while in a fight it can be an advantage, Illya can only see the disadvantages. He tries to ignore the bruise on her forehead, not wanting to think about their enemy taking advantage of her small frame, of knocking her down to the ground like small tower of blocks. He ignores the sound of his heart. It’s beating like a war drum in his ears, telling him to stand and fight. Telling him to track down the men who did this to her and deliver the same treatment.

The drumming noise subsides when she reaches up, cold fingers touching his jaw. It snaps him awake, dashes those awful dreams and brings him back to reality. He drags his head down feeling her fingers brush his lips. Her jagged nails prick along his bottom lip and she gives him a small smile. Seeing her smile up at him pushes the rest of the red out of his vision. His anger simmers down, subsides even as she traces her fingers down the edge of his chin. He doesn’t care her fingers are dirty or her nails are torn, he only cares that she’s moving, breathing, smiling – all at him.

“You can not do this again,” He informs her with a soft chiding tone, his accent is thick and eyes stinging. He wants to let go and bury his face in her neck. He wants to let go of his tightly wound exterior and fold into her, sob in relief that she is alive.

“Illya,” She says his name and it’s barely a whisper. It’s barely his name at all. He just knows it’s his from the way her lips move, he memorizes the shape of them and how easily she can render him down with a soft sigh.

“Nyet.” He cuts her off, doesn’t let her carry on. His fingers smooth back over her cheek and he reaches up and takes her own hand. His thumb presses into her palm and he holds her close, “I will not risk you. Cowboy, I risk. You?” He shakes his head to end his statement. Solo’s voice crackles over the comms, he’s got them a way out if Illya has Gaby.

Gaby opens her mouth to speak, lips cracked but Illya shakes his head again, he watches her blink slowly, eyes unfocused. She’s exhausted and weak, she needs medical attention. She has obvious signs of torture and his heart splinters at the very thought of it, “I have her,” Illya answers and watches as Gaby’s attention refocuses on him, her brown eyes catch his blue ones. Solo’s voice crackles again, a faint hiss of static asking her status. 

“She is strong, just the way I love her.”


	6. Things you said after it was okay

**Things you said after it was okay**

The gunshot goes off and echoes across the quarry. Gaby can barely hear it over the sound of her blood rushing through her ears. The small revolver in her hand shakes then falls from her fingertips, hits the ground with a soft thud and she almost follows. Her knees shake like jelly, practically knocking together as a shout left her lips, his name. His name echoes in place of the gunshot and she’s running forward. Her heels sink into the wet earth and she sheds her expensive jacket as she moves her way to Illya. He’s deathly pale but alive, the man behind him though is a whole different story. He’s dead with her bullet in his chest. Her stomach churns at the idea of it and she almost loses it when she sees all the red.

Illya’s hands grab a hold of her waist, stopping her from hurling herself forward. He surges to his feet and pulls her away, lifts her up off of the ground. His own muscles are weak but Gaby is light and doesn’t fight him. Her head hangs in the crook of his elbow and she’s dry heaving. The moon is practically swallowed up in the clouds of the sky and rain starts pelting down, it’s cold and hits his face with a soft stinging sensation. Over the sound of distant thunder, he can hear the first sob leave her lips. His hand moves over on it’s own, fingers combing through her snarls of dark brown hair. He holds her tighter, fingers stroking to the back of her neck, dragging along to the soft place between her shoulders.

“Is okay,” He starts softly, but he knows she can’t hear him over the sound of thunder crashing over their heads. She shakes, she sobs, and he feels his heart starting to break. His first kill had been years ago in the KGB. He had gone through the same thing she was going through now, that night he had laid in his bunk and shook. It was so obvious now that the man behind him was her first.

She twisted against his coat and another sob left her lips. He only held her tighter, “Is okay to cry,” He says it again, louder this time as the rain picks up around them. Something in Gaby gives in and she sinks in against the front of his chest, sobbing.


	7. Things you said when you were wrong.

**Things you said when you thought I was wrong**

He has barely looked at her since their lunch rendezvous in the middle of the crowded city. Gaby’s hand had laid over the top of their mark’s hand and Illya’s finger tightened on the trigger of a high power rifle. He could see her sugary smile through the round eye of his scope. She laid her cover on thick, feigning a poor French accent, pretending to be a lost wealthy heiress on holiday. He could hear it all through the communications device in his ear. She giggled, she touched, and she leaned over the table in that short strappy sundress giving their mark a world class view. Illya’s knuckles turned bloodless and red bled into his vision.

Napoleon’s voice crackled over the coms and the red receded.

He stayed on the rooftop with the sun baking down over his hunched shoulders. Reaching up, he used his free hand to swipe his thumb under the rim of his hat, wiping away the sweat. Illya stayed rooted to the spot, long after Gaby left and met Napoleon at the end of the sidewalk and even a few minutes after that. He didn’t return in time for dinner and he didn’t wait around in their common suite, instead he went for his own room with the half-done chess game still going on in his head. He tried to get the image of Gaby out of his head, of her winning the heart of their mark. He could still see that smile, still hear that voice – the one she never gave to him. Pushing her out of his head was harder when he managed to get inside his own room and she sat on the edge of his chair, wearing his room robe with her hair wet and soaking into her shoulders. She smiled at him and he couldn’t return it. She had showered in his room, stolen his robe, and now he wondered vaguely how long she had been waiting on him.

“You missed dinner,” She sighs softly when he doesn’t return her smile and goes back to dabbing at her hair with a small hotel towel. She wrung out the ends of her dark hair, softly humming, “I saved you some of my dessert. It’s in the white box on the counter.”

He tried not to smile. He didn’t enjoy sweets like Gaby did, no doubt the dessert was more for her than him, but she felt obligated to offer it up as a white flag, make him talk to her – make him fill the silence that rang out between them. Illya doesn’t give in yet, just stands there soaking in the silence and in her presence. The silence goes on and Gaby exhales as she pushes off of the arm of the chair and crosses her arms, “Aren’t you at least interested in what happened today? I managed to get an invitation to the Gala tomorrow.”

“I am not interested in you doing your job,” His accent is thick in the air, harsh and dragging her attention up to his face. She parts her lips for a retort and he holds a hand up, stopping her, “Not tonight Gaby. Tomorrow you can go fraternize with your mark and maybe spend the night with him. After all, I am certain he would be much better company.”

Jealousy spills into his words, he let his guard down and the small mechanic from East Germany got in, she wrestled her way into his defenses and somehow started breaking him down, piece by piece.

Gaby stamped her foot, the carpet muffled the thump but her anger was ever present as she planted her hands on her hips. She was a force standing there before him with her nails digging into the fabric of her dress and brows furrowing low over, “Illya,” She said his name sharply and he sucked in a deep breath trying to calm the sudden rise in his heartbeat, “You are wrong.”

He’s never wanted to be so wrong before, but it’s hard to accept the words. He had watched her flirt shamelessly with their mark, practically draped herself over him and he couldn’t contain the thoughts that spawned from there. She was beautiful and lively, there was no need for her to invest her time and love into someone like him, a cold blooded spy with a wall around his heart. Instead of answering her, he scoffed and moved away from the back of the couch. His shoulders hunched down for a moment before he rolled his neck, listening to the musical pop of his joints before he sidestepped her and went back to his game of never-ending chess. Illya brushed the tops of the pieces, calloused fingers hovering over the queen just long enough for him to glance up to her. She hadn’t moved. Gaby still stood there with her hands on hips, brown eyes molten and full of nothing but fire.

“I think it’s best if you go to your room tonight.” He says the words and doesn’t miss the look of hurt in her eyes. She jerks her attention up to him, eyes going wide and lips parting for a moment. She hasn’t been in her own hotel room since their mission months ago in Holland, slipping into his bed and hooking her cold feet around his warm legs. He had let her and Napoleon never even blinked when she had come out of his room in the morning, his button up wrapped around her with sleep ridden hair.

It doesn’t matter now, because whatever they had is gone. Or it’s leaving with Gaby because she doesn’t stick around to fight. Instead she stalks forward and kicks the edge of his board with the tip of her foot. Black and white pieces scatter everywhere, rolling across the floor and under furniture. His anger swells but he holds it in, keeping his head down and his lips tight, the hotel door slams shut and he lets out a choked sound. He’s left alone and with his head turned down, he sees the small queen piece roll towards him, stopping at the toe of his shoe.

She doesn’t come back to his room. She does however, return his shirt. It’s hanging on the outside of his door when he goes to leave early in the morning. Gaby isn’t at breakfast with Solo either when he takes his seat, coffee in hand. His cup is steaming with dark liquid and he barely takes a sip before the Cowboy starts asking questions.

“Is there a reason she’s not with you?” Napoleon doesn’t pull any punches. He simply turns his newspaper in his hands and goes to the next page. His face is hidden behind the paper but Illya can practically see the smug look taking over his handsome features. The Russian man shifts in his chair and scoffs before taking a sip of the bitter liquid.

“Is none of your business Cowboy,” He manages the words over the rim of his cup and the newspaper comes down for a moment. Napoleon studies him hard, blue eyes raking up and down his face, taking in all the information he can. The dark hat is pulled low over his golden head and his face is unshaven, a layer of darker stubble making it’s morning appearance, showing him off as sloppy and unhinged no doubt all because of Gaby. Illya tilts his head up in an attempt to look strong but, Solo is done with him, smirk faltering.

“Now, in my experience this is the part where you get her flowers and beg for forgiveness.” Solo folds his arms over the breakfast table, the morning paper is forgotten for now. His attention is all on his Russian comrade, dark hair perfectly gelled back and lips curved up into that infamous charming grin of his.

“I did not ask for your advice or help.” Illya’s voice is sharp, iron strong. He doesn’t give in, doesn’t break down for Napoleon to see. If Napoleon wants to see the shreds Gaby is leaving him in, he will have to wait longer than a few hours.

“Ease up Soldier,” Napoleon puts both hands up in a fake sign of surrender, easing back in his chair as he crosses his ankles and presses the tips of his fingers together, steepling them and dragging his eyes back and forth over the Russian as if assessing him. A moment of silence ticks by and it’s obvious when Illya reaches for his coffee again that he is hopeless in this situation. With a sigh Napoleon carries on, “She’ll be getting ready for the Gala tonight in my room since you so mercilessly kicked her out. I’ll need help with her gear. This is for the mission you know. Mission first, always.”

“I do not need you of all people to tell me how to do my job. I am KGB, I am trained expert. Better spy than you and the chop shop.” His anger is rising, face red and words coming out in a hissing like sound as if he’s a wild animal defending his territory.

Napoleon folds his napkin and tosses it on the table, leaving behind the paper and giving a quick nod to Illya, “As you say Peril.”

Illya is left with his coffee which goes cold in a matter of minutes, untouched between his hands. He isn’t hungry anymore as guilt fills his belly. He doesn’t give in just yet, but breakfast is no longer an option and he leaves the table a mess, leaves their common space and takes back to the mission.

Hours pass and he finds himself at Napoleon’s door. His hand is shaking. Fingers fanned out, unable to control themselves as his anger squeezes him by the throat. A few minutes pass and he’s able to breathe again and he folds his fingers together and knocks. Someone calls for him to come in and he knows it’s Napoleon because the doors to the back room are closed and he can hear someone thumping behind them.

“Glad you could join us,” Napoleon says and swirls the drink glass in his hand. The dark amber liquid is expensive and gone before Illya can comment on it as the American swings the glass up and swallows it down. Illya holds his own case tight to his chest and steps inside. He has all the new communication devices in his brief case, each one of them will be fitted for a new wire and from there be able to communicate with one another. He moved forward and set the case down on the table in the hotel room, glancing around and taking in the chaos of the American’s room. His room was the same design as Illya’s just in different colors, dark reds and ambers filled the room, but so did a mess of women’s clothing.

No doubt it was Gaby’s clothes strewn out all over the floor. She had stripped from one end of the room to the next, putting on the expensive gown for the gala tonight.

More thumping could be heard from the other side of the door and then she shouted for Napoleon.

The American looked at him and Illya sighed stepping forward in his place, moving through the doors. Gaby stood in front of a tri-mirror that sat between the walk-in closet and the vanity sink for the bathroom. Her dress was a pale pink and looked like layers and layers of tulle on the bottom, giving her a fantasy-like look. Her back was to him, exposed– her small hands trying to tie the laces up in the back.

“Solo!” She snapped at him, “I need…Illya?” She paused, fingers holding the silk strings that would loop up through the back of her dress. She didn’t turn around, simply looked up at him in the mirror. Gaby’s face was painted well to match her clothes, pale pink lips with a glitter-like shadow ghosting over her eyes. She looked ethereal and untouchable, like a work of art just begging to be stolen. She cleared her throat, “Have you come to insult me more or are you willing to help me?”

Illya’s fingers tightened around the case. He needed to suit her up for the mission, the mission would have to come first. He would have to get over the emotions running rampant in his head, push them aside and focus. Oleg would not take him back if he couldn’t focus, Russia wouldn’t have weakness like him defending her lands. He swallowed and nodded to her, crossing the room with long strides. He set the case down on Napoleon’s bed and moved up behind her, towering over her with shaking fingers. She held the strings out expecting him to say something about her choice in dress, but was greeted with nothing but silence.

His fingers shook and stretched out before carefully touching hers. He let the pads of his fingers cover her own before taking the soft silk ties to lace up the back of the dress. She let go and he stood diligently behind her, beginning the process of dolling her up for another man. He took his time, lacing one side and then the next before tying it together with an efficient yet, elegant knot.

She didn’t move, even when he finished with the ties, she just kept watching him in the mirror. Her lips pressed together, softly breathing against the tight fit of the dress, resisting the urge to lean back into him. After a moment his thumb pressed over the exposed skin of her back. He traced his fingers up and over the curve of her throat, drawing her back, watching her close her eyes and lean back into his touch. She was all warm skin and soft colors, with a faint scent of something expensive and floral, masking the harsh tang of something metallic, something that was all Gaby.

“I am sorry,” He whispered the apology, wondering if she even heard it at all as the silence kept up. She reached a hand up and covered his own, the little pearl ring catching the light. His heart skipped a beat and she nodded to him.

“We have a mission.” Gaby spoke quietly and he nodded. Mission first, emotions later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was requested by RebelliousRose! Thank you so much for being so patient lovely! You are an amazing reader and I get so happy every time I read one of your comments on my fics. You are truly wonderful. Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> This will get updated as I empty out my ask box, feel free to drop in a prompt @tulipsohhare


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